The White Privilege Conference

In the second week of April, I attended the 14th annual White Privilege Conference (WPC), held this year in Seattle. More than 2000 people of all races - students, educators, nonprofit staff, social workers, counselors, parents and activists - attended this year's gathering, "The Color of Money," focusing on the intersections of class and race.

WPC, founded by African American educator Eddie Moore, "aims to create a learning community in which participants engage in a challenging educational experience as respectful community members." At the opening ceremony, Moore reminded the attendees that the work was grounded in relationships. "Some things," he told us, "are non-negotiable: handshakes and hugs." A Community Agreement emphasizes the philosophy of “understanding, respecting and connecting.”

I presented a workshop (twice) on using children's books to spark conversations about class and race (next post). My experience was abundantly challenging and educational, and the community was indeed full of respect and opportunities to connect, around commonalities and across all kinds of differences.

I was reminded once again of how useful it is to continue to put myself in situations that stir up awareness of my own race and class privilege, let me see the patterns that are so often invisible, and to move through discomfort to new learnings and more freedom. For anyone on this journey, I highly recommend the experience.


WPC 15 is scheduled for spring 2014 Madison, Wisconsin. Maybe I'll see you there.

Looking for Loopholes

One of the blogs I've been enjoying recently is Resist Racism, an Asian-American male perspective - sharp, smart, fierce and funny. One of the features of the blog is Racism 101, "an ever-expanding list of common understandings we share as anti-racists." ("1. White privilege exists.")

Number 8, "Defensive responses to issues voiced by people of color are invocations of privilege," has provoked a long exchange of comments, mostly between one questioner (whose race is never identified but is clearly speaking out of the white experience) trying to clarify definitions, and a very generous and patient person providing a lot more information.

It's a rich and substantive conversation, but eventually the white person concludes: "At this moment, as a person open to hear the more nuanced perspectives on racism, I’m walking away from this with a sense that it’s over-thought excuse making."

From the overall exchange and the outcome, it appears that what the questioner was seeking was not true understanding, especially of the discomfiting type, but justification. All his/her effort was concentrated on dissecting what words meant, rather than imagining how the idea might pertain to his/her own experience. What a missed opportunity, all the more ironic because the person was engaging in the very defensive responses that #8 describes.

This is familiar territory to me. I've spent many uncomfortable hours twisting my brain and heart into pretzels, trying to construct a reality that justified ... me. This is indeed "an invocation of privilege," because I'm making it all about me.

And, blessedly, over the years I've discovered that I can choose another path. Seeking racial awareness and understanding can be a process of liberation, a continually unfolding journey. When a person of color raises an issue of race, you can:

Start with the assumption of your own goodness.

When we feel compelled to defend and justify ourselves, it usually means that we're afraid we might be guilty. Harmful patterns of white socialization exist, and denial, guilt and blame hold them in place. The way out is to respond not from your socialization, but from your authentic humanity. If we trust the goodness of our intentions and our hearts, we don't have anything to prove or defend. (More on defensiveness here.)

Assume you know almost nothing, as if you were a new arrival in a foreign country with biases which might blind you to other ways of seeing things. Consciously choose to place your assumptions aside. Be curious.

See an opportunity for learning and growth. Listen, listen, listen, listen, listen. You don't have to agree, but use your imagination: What if this person's perceptions were accurate? What a chance to see what things look like through someone else's eyes!

At any moment, we can make the choice to walk in the direction of freedom.

White Mind, Part II

This piece appears in my column, "The Illustrator's Perspective" in the current issue of the Bulletin of the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators:

Part I defined White Mind as the unconscious patterns of thought and behavior resulting from socialization as a white American, and one of the causes for the low representation of people of color in all aspects of the children’s book field today. Part II offers ways to make White Mind conscious and change resulting behaviors. (I directly address white readers here, though I hope it's provocative for all.)

***

I remember an exercise from college drawing classes in which we first viewed a still life as volume, then line, and finally, as white space. For the first time, I saw, then drew, the shape of the space around the objects, which had been invisible to me until my attention was drawn to it.

White Mind can be hidden in plain sight, too, and trying to catch a glimpse of its presence can be like tracking a ghost. Here are some ways to gather clues, learn its tricks, and get your own mind back:

Explore what happened to you.

1. Learn about racial identity development. In Beverly Daniel Tatum’s book, Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria?, she posits that identity is formed by what is “made salient,” the mirrors that are held up for us when we are young. Racial identity therefore develops differently for different groups. For instance, people of color tend to have racialized identities; white people, as the majority, don’t.
2. Study the invisible “pass” that comes with white skin, as described in Peggy McIntosh’s seminal essay, “White Privilege: Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack.”
3. Tell your own story of growing up white. Investigating and expressing the truth of your experience around race is a significant beginning and can be a lifelong journey. What were your mirrors?
4. Look for clues and identify patterns. What did adults around you say and how did they behave in relation to race when you were a child? What ideas did you internalize as a result? How do these unconscious ideas affect your behaviors?

Change the Script.

1. Connect across racial difference in ways that stretch you. Work to overcome the conditioning of white centrality. Choose books and blogs (see Mitali Perkins, Amy Bowllan, The Brown Bookshelf, Neesha Meminger, Zetta Elliott and many others), movies and other materials to expose yourself to non-white voices and viewpoints. Make friends across race and culture. Step outside of your comfort zone; discomfort can be growth pains. Ask questions, but do your own homework; don’t expect people of color to educate you.
2. Let go of defensiveness so you can listen deeply. Unconscious white bias is not your fault; you can take responsibility for it without needing to protect yourself. Don’t waste time justifying your intention; it’s the impact of words and actions that is critical. Trust people of color as the experts about their own experience. Become an ally.

Change the World.

1. Diversify your cast of characters. Once your own world gets more colorful, that will flow naturally into your words and images. Many people of color have requested that white writers not appropriate cultural material and experiences, but we can and should fill our book worlds with all kinds of kids. When portraying a group you’re not part of, get feedback from someone who can see what you can’t.
2. Create a demand for books by and about people of color, like those in Elizabeth Bluemle’s “A World Full of Color,” at Library Thing. Request them from libraries, donate them to schools, and purchase them for yourself and as gifts. Ask five friends to do the same. Host writers and illustrators of color for school visits, workshops and conferences.
3. Nurture the next generation of diverse storytellers. Offer to present at underserved schools, for a discount or as a donation. Mentor beginning writers and illustrators of color. Introduce them to your editors and agents.

A Zulu phrase that describes our destination: Simunye! We are one.

Trying

In response to the ongoing discussion on racial representation in children's books, I'm continuing to reflect directly (beginning with this post) on the topic of white socialization and racial identity (especially the unconscious parts), for clues about how we got to this point and how we might move forward.

White people need to talk more about the topic of race - with other white people.

We can examine the messages we got (or didn't get), express the thoughts we have (but don't dare say), admit the mistakes we've made (or are making), and be candid about our ignorance and fears. All these attempts give us practice getting comfortable with a topic that many of us were raised to avoid.

It can feel awkward and artificial; as in learning any new language, some of the attempts we make may seem silly or forced. But the alternative is to continue to demand that people of color deal with race in a way that keeps us comfortable, mostly by not calling attention to it. (And I have doubts about the depth of that comfort. In my experience, many white people carry deep anxiety about race just below the surface, but the fear that we'll be exposed keeps us from daring to address it.)

Refusing to directly address race is one more way of insisting on a white world view. One of the reasons white people are uncomfortable with a lot of race talk is because most of us didn't grow up racialized, so it feels unfamiliar or difficult or even dangerous (how soon before I put my foot in my mouth and say something that appears racist?). But when we object to that frame, when we complain about people playing the "race card," when we talk about not "seeing" race, we're once again imposing white privilege (see this quote).

In this country, just about everyone else's identity is racialized - to a great degree, by the white majority. For most Americans of color, race consciousness is a daily, unavoidable fact of life. White people are the only ones who have the option of thinking about race or not; choosing remedial racialization is one way of stepping away from white privilege.

Here's a vision of what it can look like when white people get comfortable with the topic of race: transracial adoption expert John Raible's "Checklist for Allies Against Racism."

We can't get to the beloved community - to "just human" - by ignoring all the stuff that's in our way and pretending it's not there. We can begin the journey at any moment, shedding the accumulated baggage so that we can experience true community.

In a Nutshell

From the blog "We Are Respectable Negroes," in a post by Chauncey DeVega declaring May 26 a "Be White for a Day" Holiday:

"The ultimate power of white privilege is the ability to determine when and how one will be uncomfortable."

And a useful distinction from a comment to the same post:

"... notice the difference between white and 'White.' It is a huge one... This isn't about white people it is about Whiteness. "

The Center of the Universe

Growing up in 1960s South Korea, I was a spectacle. Tall for a white American, I was a giant compared to the average Korean child, whose nutritional intake might still have been limited by post-war hardships. My round eyes, high-bridged nose, honey-colored hair, and pale skin were all amazingly exotic to the children - and adults - who often exclaimed over me in the market. Every day of my young life, I felt the spotlight on me, just because of how I looked.

In addition, Korea's ancient tradition of gracious hospitality to the guest, combined with the South's gratitude for the U.S. role in the Korean War, meant that Americans were welcomed nearly universally as VIPs. Everywhere we went, we received special attention and special service, intensified when we spoke Korean and expressed appreciation for Korean life and culture.

As I often tell students during my school visits, it was a lot like being a princess. One of the results of this conditioning was that I developed an exaggerated sense of my own visibility and significance. Returning to the States on furloughs, I felt the strangeness of walking through airports and attracting no attention at all.

This early experience of being on a pedestal, so accentuated that I couldn't help becoming conscious of it, has helped me notice some ways in which I am accorded status as a white person in the U.S. The constant affirmation white Americans receive is neither as overt nor as exuberant as what I experienced in Korea, but it is pervasive. What the two experiences have in common is the assumption of being the center.

Absorbing a sense of centrality is a subtle process because it's usually unspoken and unconscious. It's a combination of being the norm - the reference point from which all other racial groups are viewed - and of constant validation through the prevalence of images of whiteness. But because those images don't provoke the thought "white people," but simply "people," we often don't notice them. (One example: from news articles to novels, people are usually identified by race only if they're not white.)

When there is constant reinforcement of the idea that one is the center of the universe, it develops into entitlement and expectation. It feels familiar and natural, so much so that the withdrawal of it causes anxiety. When Welcoming Babies came out, one of author Margy Burns Knight's relatives looked at the dozen babies pictured on the endpapers, five of whom are white, and asked, "Aren't there going to be any white people in this book?"

I've heard repeatedly from people of color that often the most difficult people in anti-racism work are liberal whites who proclaim their commitment to the cause, but want the process to be on their own terms, in ways that keep them comfortable.

As I work on releasing myself from the biases I've internalized, I've found the assumption of centrality to be one of the trickiest things to see and to reframe. I may be working on it for the rest of my life. Catching myself again and again expecting it to be all about me is disheartening. But I can take heart from the knowledge that if I'm seeing it more, it must mean my awareness is growing.

Privilege & Pain Avoidance

Our daughter Yunhee was adopted from Korea as an infant, joining a white American mother, father and older brother, who was born into our family. (One of our oft repeated family jokes is the story of her middle school classmate who asked me, "Does Yunhee know she's adopted?")

Race was an often daily topic in our family. I'd had fifteen years of anti-racism education by the time Yunhee came home, not to mention growing up in Korea as a highly visible person of racial difference, so I was certainly comfortable addressing the topic. But I remember on so many occasions, when Yunhee expressed intense emotion about the subject (often as the result of a comment by a classmate), and even as I might be giving her my full, sympathetic attention, I was aware of a little voice in my head asking, "Can it really be that bad?"

Of course, as Yunhee's mother, I had many tangled emotions and longings as I witnessed her distress. I didn't want my child to hurt - ever, for any reason. I wanted her to learn appropriate social customs, which include containing and channeling the expression of emotion in consideration of others. But that little voice was a result of my own conditioning as a white American: racially, I have had it easy.

Without my having done anything but be born with this color of skin, I have automatically (and usually unconsciously) been granted a measure of status, advantage and influence. I have grown up surrounded by social structures, media, interactions and institutions which reinforce the centrality of my racial identity, so much so that I don't even notice them. I have never endured a steady barrage of negation about my race. In general, the experience of being white in the U.S. is comfortable, unchallenged, affirmed and taken for granted. It's no wonder that I don't notice it, and no wonder if I can't imagine what it would be like to be a person of color in this society.

Privilege plays out in many concrete ways, some explored here, but it's also pervasive as a state of mind. This diminishing of the experiences of people of color, as expressed by them, is one of its more insidious aspects. There are so many versions of this avoidance:

"Why are you playing the race card?"

"I understand your concerns, but I have a hard time hearing you when you're so angry."

"I know there are some problems, but we elected Barack Obama!"

In other words, "Please reframe that so that I can stay comfortable."

***

Because it can be really tricky trying to see my own invisible patterns, I find it useful to borrow some awareness from other aspects of my life. I can get a clue about privilege in thinking of my experience as a self-employed artist.

I'm often made aware of the fact that people with salaried positions, benefits and health insurance don't seem to be able to imagine what it's like to live without these. (I'm fortunate to currently have health insurance through my husband's job, but have gone for years without it when we were both self-employed.) I notice that salaried people frequently make requests for unremunerated services or time that show that they're completely unaware of what it's like not to have a steady income. For instance, teachers' conferences expect presenters to pay for the privilege of attending, assuming, I guess, the support of a school district to cover registration and travel. Most writers and illustrators don't have the extra resources for this, unless they have other jobs as well. The feeling I often have is that salaried people can't even imagine what the questions are that those of us who are self-employed have to ask all the time.

(This is not to suggest that self-employed people are the targets of anything, but merely to point out an example of privilege in the oblivion of people who are salaried about the lives of people who are not.)

***

Once I've identified that part of my avoidance around race, particularly my discomfort in listening to people of color express their feelings about being mistreated, is a privilege I no longer want to participate in, I've made a start.

The next part is a human one. Open my heart, and let it break.

And keep listening.

White Privilege & Children's Books

In the 1980s, Peggy McIntosh, a Wellesley professor, was working with a group of colleagues, both male and female. She kept noticing the privileges these male friends of hers took for granted and how they couldn't seem to see it even when their female colleagues drew their attention to it.

One day, she had an aha moment: If my male colleagues have unearned privileges and benefits that I as a woman don't have (and they can't see), perhaps I as a white person have similar privileges that my colleagues of color don't have (and I can't see). As an experiment, she began keeping a list, recording social benefits that she could count on, but that she was pretty sure the people of color she worked with couldn't count on.

Her 1989 essay, "White Privilege: Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack" has become essential reading for understanding how race works in American society.

Making your own white privilege list can cause a permanent shift in awareness.

Here's my attempt at one related to the field of children's books:

As a children's book reader -

1. In any mainstream bookstore across the country, I can be certain to find children's books with protagonists from my race.

2. On the jacket flaps of children's picture books and novels, if there is an author/illustrator photo, I can expect that the majority of the creators will be of my race.

3. Purchasing a gift for a white child of my acquaintance, I never have to wonder if I can find an appropriate book with characters who look like her.

4. If that child imagines herself as a princess/magician/pirate/astronaut, I can find a book to feed her dreams with characters of her race.

5. If a child I love struggles with an issue of any kind - fear of monsters, grief or loss, tantrums - I can be pretty sure there's a book out there to help him starring a boy he could imagine to be himself.

6. Reading books that are wildly popular - Harry Potter, Twilight - I never have to wonder why there's no one in them who looks like me.

7. If race is not mentioned in a children's novel, I can usually assume that the characters in it are the same race as I am.

8. I've never had the experience of reading a book about people of my race by an author of a different race and discovering it to be full of stereotypes, misunderstandings, and ignorance about white people.

As a children's book creator -

9. Attending children's book conferences, book fairs and conventions across the country (except for those specifically multicultural in design), I know that the majority (here in New England, usually about 99%) of the authors, illustrators, editors, agents and other professionals attending will be of my race.

10. Submitting a book I've written or illustrated to a publisher, I can be pretty sure that an editor will judge my work based on its literary merits and/or marketability. I never have to wonder if an editor will reject it simply because they have no experience or understanding of the cultural and racial framework I'm working from and/or don't value it.

11. If I write a book with a protagonist of my own race, I can be certain that the publisher will not change the character's race on the jacket to improve sales.

12. When a book of mine is reviewed, I can expect that most reviewers will be people whose own race and life experience won't make it impossible for them to understand what I've created.

I welcome additions to this list, as well as questions and challenges.